The Pale Verdict
The pen moved across the paper with a dry, scratching hiss, a sound that seemed to scrape the very air of the room. I was writing the date, October 14th, 1924, in a hand that trembled only slightly, though the ink had already begun to bleed into the coarse grain of the page. Outside, the wind battered the single pane of glass, rattling the frame in its rusted hinges, a persistent, hollow...
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